


Signs

by authorwithissues



Series: Premise of Tarnish [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Allen being compared to a rock, Clocks, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Introspection, Metaphors, content may be subject to change, far too many analogies, mentions of blood and depravity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authorwithissues/pseuds/authorwithissues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Link is a watcher and, as such, ever-aware of the growing number of signs that Allen is slowly slipping. </p><p>Introspective Allen-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tick of a Clock

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don’t claim to own any aspect of D. Gray-man. Hoshino-sensei is too awesome for me to steal her stuff.
> 
>  **WARNINGS FOR FIC:** accusations of Link being a sociopathic predator; Allen being compared to a rock; allusions to Greek mythology; angst; bashing of society and humankind in general; clocks; far too many analogies, metaphors, and similes; fragments in abundance; mature themes; mentions of blood and depravity; over-usage of dashes; unbeta-ed

Do others ever wonder about how exactly the world works as I do? About its mysterious ticks and tocks, echoing and reverberating throughout the very fabric of hearts and minds? How it always goes by too slow for the weary; too fast for the effervescent—too fast for those whose hourglasses have all but run out?

But, then again, does it really make sense to compare the world to a clock? After all, the clicks and mechanics are even, perfunctory, cool, justifiable, and impartial. The world is not a smoothly ticking clock that regards all things with the same stoic, apathetic face. No, this place we call our own is a cruel storm. Sharp, jagged gusts; rampant debris spiraling like shuriken on the wind; and bullets of water pelting the landscape, gutting and brutally drowning all it may strike.

Perhaps the worst difference between an unprejudiced clock and a zealous storm would be desire. The descendents of Chronos desire nothing but to keep their steady pace, trundling through life at a calm, unruffled beat. A storm, though… a storm desires destruction. To rip trees from their roots, buildings from their foundations, loved ones from their families, and the lonely from their solace. A storm desires to dirty pavement, shatter glass, topple mountains, and cleave flesh.

In such conditions, only the strongest can endure the beatings. The weak are battered and bled dry ‘til naught is left of them.

In this sense, Allen Walker is destined to fall.


	2. Basalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link is a watcher and, as such, ever-aware of the growing number of signs that Allen is slowly slipping.

Walker is no jewel. Not an emerald, diamond, or any other treasure. No, he may be better compared to basalt. He is not of the superficial splendor possessed by gemstones, but rather the dull, unsightliness of a rock.

Basalt is a common stone, found all over the world, and each lump as dreary and uninteresting as the last. Cool and monotonous, it is not a rock often sought, but rather tossed aside in the face of a ruby.

Being basalt, Allen is not a rock to lust after, and for good reason. Why would one care for such a common chunk of earth, the likes of which can be found nigh anywhere? For one simple reason that none but I are aware of: basalt nearest the inferno contains a phenomenal heat that cannot be outmatched in its potential for destruction. Still fresh from the bowels of the earth, Allen’s spark has not yet faded like all his kindred. There is, behind the veil of dull and dark, a fire burning on.

The Order remains ignorant of just how their oppression of the boy will damage the Order itself. A wise man does not poke and prod newly born rock—the risk of retaliation is a surety. They cage Allen, hoping to suffocate the flames before they can burst forth. However, the opposite is what stands true. Confining the heat to one single, small containment is only forcing the dying flames to burn hotter, fiercer. 

While I may understand this, the rest of the world does not. People look upon a ubiquitous mass of silicon, thinking they will only see what they always see—a common, dreary man. But Allen belies that expectation. It is still obvious in how he walks, talks, even eats that he is basalt. There’s absolutely nothing about him that glimmers like the aristocratic sapphire. But something is different, something not seen in ordinary, solidified lava. He emanates something that doesn’t fit right. Not realizing that what they are looking at is only partially-cooled lava, not quite the innocuous norm, a feeling stirs in people. 

Their stomachs, enclosures to rough seas, roil.

They don’t understand.

They grimace.

They fear.


	3. In the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link is a watcher and, as such, ever-aware of the growing number of signs that Allen is slowly slipping.

Most look upon me and see a straight-laced subordinate, intent on his master’s wishes. They see a rigid back and stiff shoulders.

They do not see the knives and paper tags hidden beneath my sleeves. They do not see my slightly bent knees, prepared to do battle in a split-second. They do not see my fingers darting for concealed weapons when I am surprised. They do not see a predator. They do not see the true Howard Link.

I am Crow. I view the world from my high-wire perch, the shadows my midnight feathers. From here I observe the world in all its ugliness. I watch as gore spatters the cobbles, children rot in alleys, and depravity consumes all life. Then I swoop down from my roost to feast on what remains. Such is the life of a Crow.

Merciless, brutal, and vile.

Allen Walker, curious specimen he is, sees these things. The other Exorcists are blind to the danger I present. They only see what all the others see: harmless little Link. Walker, and Walker alone, is conscious of the threat I pose to him and all he represents. And, crazy specimen he is, flaunts what little authority he bears. He wolfs down far more food than is healthy (parasitic-type or not, 32 sticks of dango every meal is not a good idea), heedlessly drags me all across headquarters, ignores nigh every word I say against him and his cause, and does all he can think of to irk and frustrate me.

All the more reason to slip back into my cloak of shadows so that I may observe his antics from a distance.

Although, at times, my roost can be a rather unbefitting location—such as lying atop a pallet on the cold, stone floor. From this unusually low locus, I observe one who, infuriatingly, possesses the higher ground in the form of the only bed in the room. A quiet, obscure challenge of my authority meant to irritate me—an effective method. Nonetheless, even from this inapt position, my avian instincts continue to function perfectly. I hear him stir. The sheets whisper sharply as he twists beneath them; the mattress irritably groans as he turns, frantic; the bed frame creaks crossly with the jerky shifting of weight; the boy himself whines, pained. And all at once, the quartet comes to a head with a gasp as Walker shoots upright.

Silence but for the gasping pants emanating from the shadowed figure above and a systematic ticking. I wait. 

The stoic clock standing by the door tocks on, methodically counting down.

**Author's Note:**

> The original, crappy version can be found on my FF.net account [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5512763/1/Signs). That terrible one is being scrapped and used solely as the bones for this better version.
> 
> Because I'm a horrifically slow writer, don't expect continuation soon. Continuation will happen _eventually_ , but don't hold your breath.


End file.
